Your Grace
by GhostRelic
Summary: What started as fluffy porn inspired by an nsfw drawing by tumblr user bai-xue88, (and its corresponding prompt), turned into something emotionally dark... and porny. ... The prompt: How bout an AU where Sansa becomes queen and Tywin is her well as fulfilling other duties. [COMPLETE]


***Note:** This story contains allusions to and descriptions of sexual, verbal, and physical abuse. Please be aware of your own sensibilities and proceed accordingly.*

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**i.**

The sun in the midday made the room look cheerful. It was in total contrast to the man with whom she shared the space.

Sitting behind his desk was the Hand of the King. It could be argued that he was the Hand of the Queen as well, but no one ever felt the urge to willfully argue with Tywin Lannister. And though Sansa sat in audience with the man as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a woman of higher rank and station than he, she may as well have been a chambermaid for all the more regard the Great Lion gave her.

She knew why she had been summoned. Knew why her day's appointments had been cancelled and was now in audience of the scowling harshness of Lord Lannister.

Her marriage to King Joffrey had now spanned years, and during those years there has never been even the hint of her being with child.

Sansa tightened her jaw reflexively at the thought of every humiliating examination Queen Cersei had the inclination to subject her to. The goal: to discredit the bride of the North, to expose her as flawed and deficient. The conclusion to which was either an annulment that would see her maintained as a mistress for the King, or an execution of one more northern traitor that would see her used as a reason to torch the volatile treaties currently standing between her brother and her husband.

Even with the honesty she buried deep and saved solely for herself, Queen Sansa could not decide which of the two would be the more unpleasant end.

There was no mystery in how King Joffrey treated his wife. Regardless of whether she covered his penchants with long sleeves and high necks, there would never be enough paint or perfume to mask gossip from those who he invited to partake in or witness her abasement or those who tended to her after he was through.

"Does he finish inside you?"

Like being pitched into freezing water, Sansa's mind converged the loose ends she was dawdling on and committed her attention to the man sneering at her - to the question he asked of her.

Her mouth dried and she could feel the creeping heat of embarrassment ascend from her collar.

Her humiliation was complete. Not only did the Hand know what her husband subjected her to, but he had also rightly guessed the reason for her _maladies_.

"M-my lord?"

"The question is not a difficult one, Your Grace," Lord Tywin said in a bored tone. "When you are performing your duty as a wife, do you prevent your husband from coming into your womb?"

"No..."

"No, what?"

"I d-don't prevent-"

"Is it that you're frigid? That you are withholding from the King what is rightfully his?"

"No."

"What is it then?"

"H-he can't-"

"Of course he _can_. He is your King and your husband. You will open your thighs and give to him what your father and brother bargained you for."

Her eyes were like that of a frightened animal; she had no idea where she should look - deciding ultimately on the wall just beyond him - blinking at every syllable he threw at her. It was not until Lord Tywin cleared his throat in annoyance that Sansa realized it was her turn to speak.

Abashed, she began, "I... I do, and H-his Grace still can't-"

"Can't _what_?!"

"_Finish_!"

The word erupted as her pain and embarrassment were forgotten; her fury well in the forefront. She leaned toward the man who had until that moment held her fear and hesitation at a precious ransom, only to shiver at the reality wringing through her body as her courage bled away.

Eyes down, intently studying an important nothing on the Hand's desk, Sansa slunk back to occupy her original position, waiting for the punishment or admonishment the outburst had earned her.

There was only quiet for the longest of moments, and when her desire to suffer sooner rather than later devoured her patience, she looked at the man cradling her current fate in his hands.

Lord Tywin had not moved, had not changed his expression - from the void of his features to the reckoning in his eyes - he merely waited. And that was the greater injury to her dignity; the Hand seemed expectant of her tantrum, unsurprised at her weakness.

Sansa summoned every bit of will she possessed to fortify her northern strength. She continued in the most calm and matter-of-fact manner she was able to muster, behaving in a fashion, that she had learned through careful observation, Lord Tywin was more apt to acknowledge.

"King Joffrey cannot f-finish... _inside me._"

The statement mortified her, but her delivery was sound and her gaze never left his. Of which the only recompense for her discomfiture was witnessing Lord Tywin wince ever so vaguely as she spoke his own vulgarity back to him.

"Since our wedding night," she concluded in a hush.

The Queen tilted her head slightly to the side, silently begging an end to the conversation from the man whose grandson she was cursed to be married to.

Lord Tywin was stony. Aside from his initial tic, the old lion was sat rigid in the face of the Queen's revelation.

"Please continue, Your Grace," he instructed with a purr and an imploring roll of his hand.

It was a purposeful disregard, and although she followed the command, the undertone was one that did not lay idle with the Queen.

Balling her fists, scratching where they rested against her thighs, Sansa readied herself to once more share her most personal shame.

"Once the King..." she cleared her throat, "My lord, he…" she gulped a large lungful of air and marshalled ahead at a quick pace, "H-he only finds his pleasure when I scream."

"Then I suggest you scream for him," he spat without hesitation. If the old lion wasn't entrenched in his disgust toward the woman denying her king an heir, he would have been dispassionate in his degradation. "You know your duty, girl, if he needs you to scream you'll lie on your back and you'll do it."

She felt cold for the second time in that cheerfully sunny room. More than that she felt numb. Numb to her ignominy, numb to implied threats, and mostly numb to the man in front of her.

He could no longer rile her, and that was a disturbingly freeing disclosure.

Queen Sansa had lived enough years of cruelty at the hands of a fiend; she knew well the moment her person was in danger.

This was not such a time.

The Hand was a merciless man; an indifferent man toward all who he felt could not serve him favourably. He had not spoken more than a handful of words to her in the entire duration of her marriage, and even if none of them were disparaging, neither were they amicable.

The Queen had been, quite simply, until that very moment, of no use to him.

"It would not matter now if I did." There was no tremble anywhere in her. "You see," she said, composed with an impressive level of poise. "The King has... _preferences_. Preferences that do not lend to conceiving a child."

A surge of recollection assailed the lion; it was as if he was living his past, one with yet another king and his madness. But he could not accept that incompetence was the fault of his family, of his blood; this northerner was brought to them a maiden, and she was surely unrefined in the ways of bedding.

_Surely_.

"That you know-" he began, only to have his words cleaved away.

"I _asked_, my lord," was her quiet declaration.

He looked on as the girl swallowed hard and started to fidget in her seat, remaining silent to obtain the rest of her tale. If she was physically uncomfortable after such a scene of bravery, he'd be more the fool to ignore what she had to say.

"The Queen Regent instructed me as you did, my lord. However, when it was all told - how… how Joffrey… takes me…"

"I assume she understood Joffrey's particular deviations were… unfruitful, Your Grace?"

The Queen nodded in earnest.

"Did the Queen Regent instruct Joffrey on what was perhaps a more _beneficial_ manner in which to conduct himself?"

"She did, my lord."

Queen Sansa answered easy enough, but the distress in her breathing was unmistakable.

Tywin raised a brow and inclined his head - a definite sign of agitation. He had no room for compassion nor games with her, and his patience was quickly sinking to ire.

"I was unable to sit proper for the better part of a moon, for her trouble, my lord."

When Queen Sansa leaned back in her chair, Tywin could not help but scoff; she wore an air of defiance that was clearly the influence of his daughter.

Nonetheless he immediately sobered to the current matter of import.

Confessed indiscretions mattered little compared to the acknowledgement that Cersei had kept the information from him for years. She _knew_ the importance of a child, yet chose to shelter her own once again. She _knew_ the boy used torture as pleasure, yet failed to ensure he abided his duty to the kingdom by fucking his get on his queen at least once.

By the time Lord Tywin addressed her again, his tension was smoothing to calculation - his mind already accumulating structure and endgame.

"Tell me, Your Grace. You must want children."

Lord Tywin looked to have opted now for cooperation instead of accusation, but it made her no less circumspect.

"It is no longer a matter of what I want, my lord, it is a matter of need," she said with open candour, then watched his brows pull in deeper - his frown dropping proportionately.

Sansa knew her error.

"The need I refer to, my lord, is not... personal."

Sansa met his eye again and spoke almost at a whisper - as though she was at fault for the information she knew, even if she was the Queen and perfectly privy to such.

"I know of the tensions coming from the North." Her focus flicked away from him. "I also know an heir would quell that tension," she offered with a hint of resignation. Her eyes closed then. "At the very least divert it."

Tywin never thought the girl incompetent, unlike most in their circle; he just never bothered to care. His grandson was a waste of a crown, but his queen indeed had the inkling of comprehension - the potential to help right the failings of her king.

His observation was as crude as it was brash.

"You will have to breed, Your Grace."

"Yes, I know." Sansa hated how the words squeaked out, but inwardly lauded her lack of hesitation.

"Ser Jaime," the lion said confidently. "Lord Commander of Kingsgaurd, he'll serve for this purpose-"

"No." Her perpetual blush seemed to redden further as she cut him short, but she managed to keep his eye. "N-no one else can know, my lord."

When her brows raised and her features wore something made of a grimace and a plea, the old lion sat back with a huff and looked down his nose at the girl.

At the Queen.

Her standpoint held no fault, he knew it.

His jaw worked, his lips thinned and his eyes narrowed - the Hand knew exactly what his queen was asking of him.

"Very well," he said flatly. "When was the last time you bled?"

Sansa's mouth hung loose at the inquiry, howbeit she answered dutifully if not distractedly, "Eight... Yes, eight days past..."

"In six days send word of where to meet you that evening." Lord Tywin then drawled at the girl like she was dull-witted, "_Discretely_."

Everything was moving fast, her mouth spoke as her opinions formed, "The King will know if-"

Tywin did not oblige the question; his tone snapped dismissively, "King Joffrey will assume as he always has: that his potency is righteous. And you, Your Grace, will have finally achieved some form of worth."

She looked to her lap, toward clasped hands and restless fingers, her face pinched in hurt. His words cut, but they were the truth of her circumstance.

Sansa nodded. Raising her head to the man she had chosen to father her child, she continued nodding her agreement in tiny increments - to him, to her, to what they were about to embark on.

It was done - their deal had been struck - and as Queen Sansa left the chambers of the Hand, she felt strikingly at ease.

She had endured Joffrey for years; the risk that this man could inflict upon her anything that would jar her sensibilities was a minor one. Yet the wager was her life, and her bet fell to the perception that this very man was as true to his responsibilities as she.

Theirs was a compromise struck for the necessity of peace and for the settling of politics.

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_Godswood._

It was the lone word she had sent to Lord Tywin six days after their meeting and was the safest place she knew of; the only place she could think of that could accommodate the privacy they would need.

Joffrey had only summoned her to his chambers once in those six days, and Sansa wondered if the Hand had more to do with that than luck. Either way she was not as sore as she could have been, but that did not hinder her queasy nervousness overall.

She heard a steady stride making its way deeper into the wood where she was waiting. Taking a moment, she marveled that Lord Tywin had such a defined gait she was able to recognize him from that alone.

Entering the clearing where she stood, making a cursory assessment in the limited light, he addressed her in what was clearly disdain.

"If you think I am going to rut with you amidst the bracken, you are three decades too late."

Her eyes widened, her hands wrung, and her feet shifted nervously at his reprimand. She cared only of the seclusion the godswood offered and really did not know what was required on the outset for the deed to be performed properly.

"I… I'm…" she stuttered.

"We'll make due," he clipped.

He then swept his arm around in what was a ridiculous gesture for Tywin Lannister, but spoke in the caustic manner Sansa was expecting the first time.

"_Pick a tree_, Your Grace."

She did.

His instruction was clear; it was the part of her that intuitively stooped to the degeneracy of her husband that had her obeying without question.

She chose one with a wide enough trunk to lay both her palms flat upon - one that had coarser bark, but whose roots were deeper than the other trees, that would let Lord Tywin stand comfortably - and took a stance she knew all too well.

Her arse in the air, bent steep at the waist, wrists close together _but not crossed_ - this was a familiar position for Sansa. Save the fact she was not yet bound nor already being struck, it was very much what she was used to.

He could only watch. He dared not think past the initial impact of seeing this woman, this queen, assume a position normally employed for the implement of torture; engaged in a manner she obviously surmised was conventional for the act they were about to perform.

The old lion flexed his jaw in disgust; an opinion that was in no way regarded toward the woman before him.

Using an almost tender touch, Lord Tywin straightened Queen Sansa's posture to a less severe angle. She complied without a question; pliable under his hands, and Tywin knew this to be a trait of training, not of respect or trust.

She would follow his lead and submit to his every whim, and if he were a lesser man without control, without the rigid compunction of duty, it would mean opportunity for the blackest part of himself to reign.

Again he felt disgust, and again it was directed away from her, and aimed precisely at the man who _did_ allow depravity to govern his common sense.

Carefully lifting and draping her skirt high on her waist, he found that exposing her did so completely; she was not wearing smallclothes. Tywin bit back whatever praise he thought to consider for the girl's practicality as it dawned on him that such measures may have been more a habit in regards to Joffrey than any concession she made for him.

Even in the weak beams of moonlight that seeped through cracks in the canopy above, Lord Tywin could identify the discolouration of bruising and the raised threads of scarring that were scattered quite liberally on the sparse allotment of skin in front of him.

The Queen uttered no explanation or apology as he speculated a young woman might; there was nothing from her save an empty kind of stillness.

_...he only finds his pleasure when I scream…_

Tywin pushed that knowledge away with force, yet touched the girl with an opposite extreme. His fingers ghosted over her hips and down the sides of her thighs as far as he could reach. She was soft, and she was lovely that way; it made no sense to him that she should be ruined with harm.

Sansa liked the careful contact Lord Tywin gave her, but she also felt at odds with her caution. She could not predict him like she could Joffrey; however, the distinct hiss of lacing being pulled undone set her to rights - in that she had an idea of what was to happen next.

When she felt the immediate placement and warmth of his prick laid against the cleft of her arse there was a pang of worry; mayhaps she misjudged Lord Lannister, mayhaps he would take her the same way the King preferred. Yet there was no further motion in that regard, just more touching.

Still, it did not stop Sansa from mentally preparing for what she feared was inevitable pain and intrusion.

Instead she felt what could have been an unsure grasp of her left hip, and then an altogether unexpected brush of fingertips under her skirts and around the front of her. It was a soft searching motion; teasing through the course hair at her center, seeking her furrow.

Light sweeps, first down then up; each pass pressing just a little more into her curls, until he found the tiny knot of flesh that had only ever before been bitten or viciously pinched in an effort to coerce her terror. And though there was no maliciousness in Lord Tywin's grazing nudges, she found _that_ terrifying in its own right.

Again she felt utterly out of her depth, having no idea what to anticipate if not hurt; it was crippling just how pathetic it confirmed her to be.

"S-stop... _Stop_."

Even as she was saying the words, Sansa lowered one of her hands to grip and push away the wrist of the hand that offered such a foreign caress.

"What are you doing, my lord?" she said warily.

"_Trying_ to make you ready."

There was a definitive frustrated growl accompanying the puffs of air warming her neck.

When there were no other words, no noise save for the push and pull of their breathing and the natural rustling of the godswood, Tywin came to a very regrettable conclusion.

"Have you never been... touched... _as such_, Your Grace?"

The silence became repressive before Queen Sansa offered brittly, "I haven't, my lord."

Suddenly the young woman he was leaning into, that his cock was pressed snugly against, sounded like a pitiful child.

He led her to stand straight with hands gently guiding, Lord Tywin turned her to face him.

"Close your eyes, Your Grace."

This time his purr was not laced with callous judgement. If Sansa were to define it, she would vow his intonation was sincere. But mayhaps, in her position, she was not the most ideal person to entrust with such a task.

Her eyes fluttered closed at the same time she leaned back on her chosen tree.

_...her chosen _tree.

What a bloody fool she felt. Luring the Hand of the King,_ the great Lord Tywin_, out into a coppice for the express purpose of infidelity.

This was her moment of doubt, yet the man made no effort to perpetuate her insecurity... not that she could see.

When her were eyes closed, she was alone; left vulnerable in same way she was those first days and moons after the death of her father. An involuntary need caused her hands to reach out in her darkness - where they met resistance. Living, breathing resistance.

Lord Tywin stepped closer to her, there was no indication of danger; her hands stayed clasping the soft, warm fabric of his doublet. It was the kind of anchor she needed to move forward in her situation, to reassure herself this was not a solitary endeavour.

The old lion said nothing of protest, nor did he attempt to remove her hold on him.

She felt her skirts bunching up higher, and the night air slide cool across the front of her this time. She felt his clever fingers again, at a new angle, dancing their light pet over the most private part of her.

When he grazed around her delicate bump, Sansa breathed in sharply through her nose. If she had granted herself a voice in these times, she was sure she would have gasped.

"Spread your legs for me."

His voice was deeper and moderately roughened, Sansa noticed. He wasn't panting, just speaking with a taste of urgency.

It felt like excitement, and it helped to stoke hers as she carried out his hazy command.

There was a rumble of approval from the man; a _good girl_ perhaps, or simply _good_, but the Queen was lost in the touch and feel of her new-found gratification - her _only_-found enjoyment in an undertaking and concept that would usually denote torment.

She knew better than to squander this. Even if it was with a man who was not her husband, who was a man she should fear and not give over to. Yet when one lives an existence of dejection, one has to hold close and cherish _any_ moment of happiness - regardless of where it's derived.

Dipping his fingers low into the heat of her, Tywin felt the boon of his efforts in the slick moisture they spread around.

He could feel the Queen growing warmer in her gown, getting wetter in her quim, and breathing heavier at his ministrations - yet she remained silent. Her lull was curious to be sure, and something Tywin would have addressed if he had a scrap of interest to do so. As it were, his was merely a function of duty; for the betterment of the realm.

..._for the betterment of the realm._

His cock was hard, his fingers slipped in her lather, and his need was making the world blurry. At that particular time the betterment of the realm was the furthest care in his inventory of priorities.

Turning her to lean toward the tree once again, lifting and placing her skirts, his hands a little more impatient than overtly gentle, Tywin noted her eyes were still closed; her face was lax and serene - all the more for his encouragement.

With a firm grip both on her waist and on himself and not a word between them, the lion teased the tip of his cock along her seam. Sliding like silk through her wetness, he played against her sensitive bump a handful of times before catching at her entrance.

He fit into her with one heavy push forward.

There was still no sound, no voice of delight or discomfort from the Queen; but she was so hot and she was so tight, Tywin could not fight the groan that shivered out of him for the duration of settling himself fully inside her.

The Great Lion moved in long strokes, letting the night chill him before slowly burying himself again and again. When he felt the experimental squeeze of the woman he was within, it sparked and fueled his headiest of desires; remote feelings that seemed to be resurfacing by degrees every moment they were joined.

No, Lord Tywin thought, _this_ was no chore.

Without warning, the lion tucked a hand under the front skirt of her gown and used his fingers in the same manner as he did to make her ready. Sansa had no recourse to this kind of stimulation other than to claw her fingers in a harder grip into the bark, shut her eyes tighter, and purely hope that she could keep her knees and stay standing.

Her head was swimming, but it was her body that was the greater wonder.

The manner in which they conjugated was not unknown to her, but Sansa's previous turns at that type of bedding had always been fleeting - abandoned for acts more heinous and grotesquely perverse.

Apprehension never truly left her; while scarce in the back of her mind, the fear that violence might still play its role was a preservation instinct she knew better than to ignore.

Yet Lord Tywin's nibble fingers again played with her, and again she refused to spoil it.

There was a pressure she could feel pitted deep in her belly, and with every movement the man behind her was making - with his fingers and with his prick - that constraint in her belly was forcing its way outward.

All at once, she was overwhelmed, and Sansa felt her body clench seemingly everywhere: her jaw, her fingers, her lungs, and even inside where Lord Tywin was. She would have feared such an introduction to an unknown nuance of herself if it hadn't felt so, so good.

He felt her both give way and grip him in one shuddering wave; his arm moved to encircle her, to help keep her upright. Leaning over her back, his other hand left her waist and rested itself above each of hers on the tree to sturdy him.

Bending his knees minutely warranted a deeper angle to take her; his rhythm was waning, his thrusts were sharp - his release was upon him.

The arm around her body cinched and pulled her up a little more, steadying her as those bright ripples of pleasure subsided. Her back laid flush against Lord Tywin - both still bent in a slight hunch - his mouth was near her ear and all she heard through her own fog was a broken groan that accentuated with each snap of his hips.

He was coming into her, she knew.

Sansa also knew the importance of it and made every effort to remain motionless - to provide him what he needed... to finish.

She had never before felt a man's seed planted where it would produce a child and blushed scarlet at such an improper thought. For all that, Sansa found herself opening her eyes to the actuality and grinning, as well; smiling into the darkness at the fact that it simply felt right. Messy, but _right_.

At length, Lord Tywin stayed unmoving; recovering his breath while conceding to the natural shift of her body pushing out his softened cock.

She felt him replace her skirts with the same care he used to move them, then step away to tend to his own clothing.

Sansa had no true reference for what to do next. Her husband tended to flaunt his debauchery and unfaithfulness in front of her, but she was sure Lord Tywin was not so inclined.

If she were perfectly honest, she would say he was at as much of a loss as she was.

Though it was _his_ voice that ended their impasse.

"I need not tell you the importance of washing yourself only when unattended."

He was sure he could see her flush red to her ears even in the shadowy moonlight. Her jittery reply, an attempt to play the shy maiden, was his confirmation; it was also the reason his mouth twitched at the corners.

"O-of course, my lord."

The mood from there lent to a kind of awkwardness; one that Sansa could not tell if it was made more so by the intensity of what they had just done, or if it was the singular intensity of the Hand of the King.

Whatever it was, it was ripped apart by the abandoned motion Lord Tywin made toward her; he reached a hand to her, but seemed to think twice and recoil.

Some courtly nicety, perhaps? Mayhaps a late remembered gesture of chivalry? Sansa would never know.

Scowling anew, the Great Lion turned quickly on his heels; retreating toward his tower within the Red Keep.

Leaving the Queen to the night and the woods around her.

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**ii.**

The call to retrieve the Hand of the King came in the hours just before dawn.

As he hurried to dress, Lord Tywin carried a firm suspicion regarding the reasons for such rush and panic. He knew from experience that this type of missive came only with imminent death; his experience also determined that this most recent alarm was for the benefit of either a mother or a babe - or both.

Queen Sansa was not alone in her chamber when the Hand arrived; the King and Queen Regent had been notified as he had been - yet their locations had been closer.

He entered in time to hear Joffrey ruthlessly slight his wife.

"It's a wonder I allow you in my bed to begin with! Northern blood will always be _cold _and _weak_." He leered at her pale, prone form and sneered, "_Like the rest of you_."

The Queen laid there, her head turned from them, her muscles completely still. For what she had gone through, losing a babe at almost five moons into her pregnancy, there were no tears either. Just an eerie quiet and her throat working to swallow while the King tore through her with his words.

The old lion said nothing.

Instead he observed his daughter and her son bandy the dignity and negligible value of the Queen between them; much like they were animals, scraping and gnawing at her self-respect for the prospect of seeing her bleeding and wounded.

The two knew better than to seek to include him in their banter; after all, it would have meant less opportunity to hear themselves speak.

With courage plucked from the air around her, Queen Sansa finally turned her head toward those in the room; Tywin ground his teeth as the means to express his disappointment.

Her eyes remained drawn to the bed linen, but did not impede the view of the side of her face, the side that had been turned away from him prior. From her temple to her jaw were overlapping blots of red and bruising; the loose end of her gown's sleeve that had pushed up to her forearm as she shifted uncovered the telltale burn of rope.

The Queen's wounds sat raw and open to the air, and still there was no lull in the torrents of vitriol.

Tywin would scarcely have to guess how far and _where_ those injuries traveled on her body for the Queen to have ended up here and now. The King's penchant for sadistic brutality was no secret, and if he had the time and the means to inflict that cruelty on two beings instead of only one... it would be a temptation far too substantial to overlook.

Admittedly, half a year ago her injuries would have been no different, save a babe, and half a year ago he could not have cared less one way or the other if the treatment of her allowed life or proved fatal. As it was, the fact now stood that Queen Sansa was far more a central cog in the mechanics of his manipulated regency than merely a shear pin - overlooked and disposable.

Unfeigned blue eyes skittered to resolute green, reading right into him; directly through him, maybe.

The instant they met, Tywin felt a mass of emotions collide; anger that she might open her mouth and damn them both, annoyance that she might think to employ some ill-pondered wish for him to commiserate the loss of the babe, but the most prominent of them all was a sickly pang of anxiousness.

_A bloody foolish concern is what it is_, he thought. Foolishness that he may read on her face some dulled resignation that she would have to meet him again; would have to endure his intimacy _again_.

The Great Lion abruptly left the room; as he did so, he retained two certainties.

The first was that there would be another attempt for an heir; it was irrefutable, and he knew the Queen herself would deduce as much. The second was that there no sign of resignation in her features; however, what _was_ there was distressing all the same.

The Queen had proffered the Hand a look of worry.

Lord Tywin knew well the intricacy of man's condition; he knew how to interpret slight nods and subtle glints…

He winced in recognition.

Her worry was _for_ him, not _of_ him, and it rendered him stricken.

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The Queen had no need of a note the second time she was to approach the Hand of the King.

It was he who sent for her on their appointed evening; more precisely, it was Ser Kevan who led Queen Sansa cautiously, silently, in the dead of night to an oft ignored tower edging the furthest corner on the southwest side of the Red Keep.

Lord Tywin's brother was the essence of every Lannister Sansa found herself surrounded by - shrouded in an air of authority and arrogance - only, he was not so conceited as to be drowning in those attributes. He was the only one to smile in a genuine way; not something forced or displayed for her favour or as an offer of pity. And when compared to the older of the brothers, Sansa knew to take the younger's absence of pretense to heart.

She trusted him with their secret.

The higher they climbed, the more Sansa clung to the arm of Ser Kevan; she had heard tell stories of towers, more than enough involving the name Stark, and none ended favourably.

Their halt ended her worries. His opening a door to a dark passageway began them anew.

"It's alright, Your Grace. He's waiting," Ser Kevan said in a low tone, gently shepherding her toward the soft glow of light at the end the inky corridor.

A subtle thump of wood told her Ser Kevan had closed the door behind her; it also told her she was now alone on her cursory journey into the meager room.

Lord Tywin stood in the fringe of light cast from a solitary lamp set upon the mantle of an unlit hearth. The illumination struggled to blanket the room and its contents, though sparse - a table, solitary chair, and a bed - each became sizable in that trick of light.

But the surprise was Lord Tywin, who wore a posture and demeanour remarkably subdued - pensive perhaps.

Even as he watched her enter and approach, the lion had an easy look about him; his doublet laid on the small table as he presented himself in breeches, boots and an untucked tunic.

Such a tiny detail, his being informal, but it was everything to her.

Until he spoke.

Gesturing to the bed fit tight into the corner of the room, the voice that greeted her felt nothing short of contempt.

"You'll find _this_ contraption a little more conducive to our needs than a grove and a handful of tree bark."

Sansa looked to the bed, then back to Lord Tywin - his overall disposition had not changed despite quarrel in his words - and she couldn't help but wonder if this was an attempt at levity. It would make sense that his humour would be deprecating and his manner unmoving - _how absurd_, she thought.

Without malice, Sansa huffed out a quick nervous laugh and was rewarded with an odd little incline of his head as though to say her reaction was correct.

_Humour in the shadow of scrutiny._ How absurd, indeed.

She managed a small, lopsided grin as she felt herself relax some; the lion didn't seem to mind, so she made the effort to keep it.

Without word or indication of intent, Lord Tywin closed the distance between them.

His green eyes glittered as they flicked and searched her face, from her eyes to her lips and back again. When his mouth seemed to lower, Sansa's breath caught, but it was the whole of him that was sinking. Before she could discern his motives, she felt the air in the room touch her under her gown.

Lord Tywin rose, Sansa's eyes stayed fixed, and with him, in one hand, were the long skirts impeding his goal.

The room felt hot, though there was no fire in the hearth; her gown felt too small, though it was cut to fit.

Sansa had never experienced this kind of tingling anticipation and wondered if it was a condition Lord Tywin was somehow permitting. Yet as she watched him bring the fingers of his free hand to his mouth and run the tips over his tongue - wetting them - she conceded with a jolt of that same raw thrill that the man was but a catalyst and the cause was her own need clawing its way to the surface, making itself known.

He touched her slit and her mouth fell open; whatever howl that should have emitted was muted and caused him to smirk. But his ego fell completely away when he ran his fingers down her cleft to find her wet and ready.

Groaning at her, Tywin cupped his hand on her mound and used the leverage to shuffle her backward to the bed.

"Lay back."

His voice was gravel, and his mind was a fickle thing, all he wanted was to be inside her.

Sansa took her time lying down, as if she was aiming for some measure of comfort the straw pallet and furs didn't already provide.

The delay was to Tywin's advantage; affording him time to unlace his breeches and stroke his cock as he readied.

"Lift your skirts, Your Grace."

His voice was no longer his own; full of want and hunger as it was.

Eyes pointed solely to the ceiling, the Queen slowly raised her skirts to swathe about her waist; a scene more beautifully lewd than he had been witness to in more years than the girl had been alive.

His cock ached.

Tywin crawled over her; he _had _to feel her. He laid his prick lengthwise and moaned as he settled into her groove. Rocking steadily through her slick wet, over her hard little bump, the lion was oblivious to everything save his own fervor - even the suffering of others.

Retreat from a familiar pain or speak to ensure a new pleasure. Simple decisions to some were enigmas to the Queen.

Sansa recalled when asking for something self gratifying was easy; tokens of happiness from a time she was surrounded by smiles, a time when love was prominent. But those memories were never a frame for reference now. No. In her reality she knows that requesting betterment of any kind only prolongs the hurt or encourages new forms of it.

She went away inside herself then. And so genuinely disappointed was she in that feeling less pain required her to feel nothing at all, she could not stop the short-lived tears that fell quickly down her temples.

Tywin was adrift in his pleasure; eyes closed, groaning at the feel of his cock against her. He failed to notice the strained grimace on his Queen's face that had become more prominent with every movement he made, nor the burst of tears as her awareness coasted someplace distant.

He opened his eyes expecting to see the same slumbering fulfillment he had witnessed in the godswood. Instead he found a girl with her head turned away from him in something akin to disgust.

His arousal began to drain, softening him; when he shifted atop her trying to retain it, his burden was to observe her flinch .

"Does it hurt?"

The question was genuine, yet he looked on as the girl beneath him slipped away leaving naught but a shell. The man had never been known for soft words; his tone _was_ gruff, though not all that severe, but it came out very much like a taunt.

Tywin could not understand her reaction; it cluttered his patience to the point of anger.

"_Say something_," he snarled aggressively.

"I like it, Your Majesty."

Her voice that of the dead, her words addressed another man entirely - one the who sought only to destroy her.

Lord Tywin felt the skin prickle on the back of his neck.

_...he only finds his pleasure when I scream…_

With absolutely no finesse, the old lion scrambled off the girl and subsequently from the bed.

She lay there, staring off to somewhere not remotely in the room; the only proof of life was her fingers making tiny clawing motions into the linens.

Whatever her distress, he finally concluded, it was not _about_ him but something he brought about.

Hastily tucking his cock away he leaned over his Queen and lightly gripped each of her upper arms - maneuvering her tractable body to stand. She was shivering under his grasp, whether in cold or shock was unclear, but his remedy was the same either way.

His hands were warm, tracing the length of her arms in calming sweeps. Tywin concentrated on the soft material grazing his palms as he repeated the motion, taken by the satisfying way his Queen pulled in deeper breaths, how the quivering of her muscles faded with every pass.

It felt an indulgence that he could do that for her - rescue her from a living hell...

_A bloody foolish concern…_

The Great Lion shook himself from whatever fancy he figured himself trapped in. And though the girl was not quite firm-footed, he was compelled to end the game he initiated against himself.

"We shall postpone this matter for another time, Your Grace-"

"_No_!"

The intensity of her reply startled him.

Even though her range of view remained diverted, her hands reached out to take hold of him at his tunic; fingers snatching at the fabric, coiling themselves in it.

The display was not in desperation, more near to ownership or possession.

Baffled only momentarily, Tywin made the step to be closer to her. To bear the grip she felt she needed - whether it was on him or on the world around them, he wasn't wont to know.

She shuffled forward, lessening the gap even more.

Queen Sansa did not seek to embrace him, it seemed; more to the truth, the girl was taking comfort in him. Her breathing deepened, and her fists in his tunic loosened some though they stayed where they laid upon his chest.

In light of that, it seemed a natural tendency to gently sweep his fingers down her sides - aiming to rest on her waist or her hips. But unlike his smooth caresses down her arms - over the silk of her sleeves - his paths along her ribs were stuttered by a tacky resistance. The silken material had curious swatches that felt cold to the touch, almost like they were made of something damp...

Tywin splayed one hand palm-up and examined his fingertips in the soft light. Even in the room's dimness he could see the darker, near-to-dry smudges, and tilted his view to see for himself.

The crimson of her gown was deep enough to be Lannister, and might be the Queen planned it as such, but with the lamplight at the proper angle, Tywin saw all too well the murky lines that had seeped through the fabric.

"Was this tonight?" He inquired as gently as he could muster.

Her eyes were still leagues away, her voice wasn't much closer, "Yes, my lord."

At the very least she knew his title - who he was.

And the thought of such beseeched his duty to the foreground, to which Tywin did the only thing he knew to be right.

Making use of her hold on him and his hands at her sides, Tywin slowly stepped backward - watching to ensure her feet made the same journey. It was a slow, if short dance to the lone chair in the room; one that saw the Great Lion first push aside the placket of his breeches, then reach back and pivot the seat to accommodate him.

Like their steps, he sat down in a measured way; allowing for her hands to stay on him as he descended. Instead of reaching low to the hem of her gown, Lord Tywin opted to bunch her skirts into his fists, enough to expose her mid-thigh.

The words to instruct her were on his tongue, but Queen Sansa knew his inclination and moved, borne along almost powerlessly, to straddle his lap before he could speak. He swallowed his voice after that, using only his hands to guide her in sitting snug against his freed and hardening cock; then to rub soothing, venturing circles over her bare thighs, hips, and arse.

"Close your eyes, Your Grace."

It was a serious command made in what he meant as a reassuring tone - she complied regardless.

Straightening his cock to lay pointed at his belly, he crooked a finger, nudging the bend at his knuckle down and around where he knew he could make his Queen wet, make her come.

From inside herself, from where she had hidden safe from the panic and hurt, Sansa could now feel distant flutters of something good. They seemed far away, those familiar ripples; the same ones she had felt each time she had stood alone in the dark and so close to Lord Tywin.

He was touching her in the way she enjoyed, enticing her from the place within that made her desolate without. But it was more than a bartering of flesh and gratification, it was what she wanted. What _she_ wanted to feel.

Spurned and revived, Sansa pushed her way toward Lord Tywin's sensual teasing with a determination she had not known she possessed, emerging to a peaceful certainty the likes of which had been stolen from her years prior.

Blinking away the shimmering haze in her eyes, she opened them to find the Great Lion peering up at her; neither expectant nor critical, but an intimate contact beyond anything she had ever felt physically.

His face was ever serious, yet the lines that usually illustrated his disdain were gone and his eyes were hooded. When she moved against his touch his head lolled back ever so slightly, as though pushed with an invisible force, but he never looked away.

_Desire_.

He was swimming in desire _for her_. And like everything she had experienced in her minimal acquaintance with the man, this was altogether new.

It was altogether wanted.

Whether her choice of him was right or wrong was moot in comparison to the knowledge that she shared this precious time with someone who _craved _her; who wanted more from her than her anguish - and was willing to give of themselves, not merely take.

She was squirming in her delight, but every time she would move too suddenly, her injuries reasserted themselves causing her to hiss in pain.

Keeping one hand on her hip - ushering her continued sway - Tywin pulled his other hand loose of her skirts, worked his fingers through her thick auburn hair, and deliberately tarried at the base of her skull.

He was awash in subtle awe at the look of her sheer appreciation as he cradled her body true to his own; her head nestled in a natural position on his shoulder.

With an encouraging hold on her backside, the old lion used his hand to hunch her hips forward along the length of him. It took more than one try to find a rhythm, but the effort was worth it when Queen Sansa ground him into the wood of the chair chasing her pleasure, quietly.

The feel of her coming undone then slumping on top of him was all his smug pride needed. Smirking into the empty room, he lifted her slightly and moved his prick to a position behind her waiting quim.

He was there and she was ready - if not for sudden stiffening of her body.

Tywin thought momentarily that she was in distress again, but her eyes were clear and focused. She had brought her bottom lip to her teeth, and if the gesture hadn't flared his desire straight to his cock like a gods-damned greenboy, he may have inquired why she looked unsure.

The responsibility of their actions became crushing. She was trying to become a mother by the worst possible design, in the worst possible environment, and she felt gutted by a sudden feeling of inadequacy.

"Let me in, Your Grace."

His voice soothed; a deep tone laced in his own form of sincerity as if he had heard her worried thoughts and was reassuring his presence. _Of course_ Lord Tywin would be there to protect the child. _Of course_ he knew the importance of their union.

His fingers carefully, delicately brushed over the skin where they curled to rest just outside her entrance, and Sansa struggled not to forget that the simple act of touching could also mean comfort, could also mean safety.

"Let me in," he said again.

Sansa relaxed enough to give Tywin the pliability needed to tilt her hips, align himself, and part her flesh with a slow, upward thrust.

Meeting her body's natural bend forward, Tywin pushed into his Queen with short easy strokes - entering a little deeper every time - until she was breathing in fluttering pants.

It was that same pattern of airy noise the old lion caught himself dreaming of since their first encounter; her silent pleasure.

Using a gradual rocking motion, Tywin managed to rub her against him in a way that provided the most stimulation. Her heavier pants and her fingernails curling into his tunic, catching skin, let him know she appreciated his efforts.

He had to rally against his lust to understand why that specific confirmation affected him so.

For all that she had endured, for all that she had been ridiculed - openly and savagely at times - Queen Sansa still _welcomed_ him. Not just a stranger, but _an enemy_, and she welcomed him nonetheless - into her embrace, into her trust, into her body.

"_Sansa_."

Her name. Just her name. There was no title to create distance, and it made their intimacy somehow more permissible.

The arm she had been resting on his chest moved, embracing his neck and shoulder. The momentum from that shift straightened the rest of her; her face now nuzzled his throat.

He could not help but to pull her closer, to tuck his own face into the soft, inviting stretch her neck offered. She smelled so sweet, so untainted; there was nothing of the bitter perfume that hangs heavy at court on the girl.

A scent he could only gather was naturally _her_.

It was this logic that compelled his mouth to press sparingly on her skin just under her jaw, and his tongue to tentatively lave. His mind soared at its find; his Queen tasted just as sweet - a discernment which caused the old lion to nearly forfeit what control he had.

There was enough slack in his posture that it gave him the right amount of leverage to do the work and fuck his Queen unreservedly. He held her secure and let the sway and friction between their bodies stoke and build their arousal.

It was faint at first; Tywin reasoned what snagged his attention were drafts through the relic tower playing havoc with his hearing. But when the same tiny whine breezed over him again, his senses placed its origin.

The Queen.

He could hardly see her face, tucked against him as she was, but he could feel her breath and with it the burgeoning quivering moan that accompanied her exhale.

What a strange and glorious victory - knowing his Queen's only voiced passion was with _him _- it was a battle he never knew, _never acknowledged_, he was fighting to win. Though he was aware he would make every effort to coax that sound from her repeatedly - that was cold fact.

Every stroke, every thrust, every time he filled her that wispy moan swirled around him and settled directly on his conscience. By the time her body began to tense in preparation for its inevitable end, her soft, throaty call was being met and bested by his own.

When her body cinched tighter and the grip on him inside her cunt began to shudder, the airy moans just beside his ear stretched out long and went shaky with the rest. And though he was sure she was no louder than before, Queen Sansa may as well have been shouting her peak to the heavens above for the effect it had on him.

His thrusts became forceful; his hands fixed on her hip and on her nape hooked her firmly where he needed her: flush against him.

The warmth of her, the wet of her, the smell and the sound of her - it was all overwhelming.

_She_ was overwhelming.

With a pitchy sigh that carried her name once again, Tywin buried himself as hard as he could, as deep as he could, and found his release inside his Queen.

Time did not matter, and neither could have said how long they rested - wrapped around one another, breathing hot onto each other's neck - but it was the tender brush of fingertips and fingernails along his sweaty nape that Tywin, all at once, shivered beneath and emerged from under.

Reality was cold.

As was the tower and the night, and the way they would never speak of this again.

Lord Tywin helped her gain her feet, to step away and straighten herself - allowing him the same courtesy.

Standing in the aftermath, Sansa noticed the scent of their indiscretion lingered around the room and on them individually. She supposed that kind of revelation should have impelled awkwardness much like in the godswood - it simply did not.

But neither was there a parting gesture from the old lion this time, nor any attempt. He simply walked away from her; speaking in a cool, even tone from a narrow passageway tucked unnoticed next to the fireplace.

"Count to one hundred, Your Grace, and leave the way you entered."

With curt words and the click of a hidden door, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was left alone.

She gently lowered herself to sit in the chair that still held a shade of warmth from Lord Tywin.

Absently, she brushed her fingers across the line of her jaw; blinking in the acknowledgement that she could still feel his mouth there. Her other hand curled around her body, coming to lay carefully at her ribs; she felt the reward of the other man who sought to mark her that night.

The Queen swallowed thickly in the waning light of a forgotten little room and realized, to her dismay, that after years of living at the heart of misery it was a precarious taste of prosperity that hurt most of all.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Lord Tywin's seed once again found purchase in the womb of his Queen.

However, this time there was more importance and effort placed on the diversion of the King. Whores and tourneys were in greater number when the Queen was with child; to great success, as she was not called upon in those moons.

Although, the instant she went to the birthing bed, King Joffrey went just as swiftly on a hunt; leaving his Hand the authority and rule of the realm in his stead.

As it so happened, the welcoming and welfare of his own babe counted amongst those duties Joffrey felt was better left to those who may care; whether or not that included his Hand was of no more a concern to him, less even, than the woman bearing the child.

After the ordeal of labour - once she was washed and fed and laid in the comfort of her own bed with her son in her arms - Queen Sansa observed in her periphery the first visitor entering her chambers. Turning her head to confirm, she watched with a mild look of confusion on her face as Lord Tywin made his way to her bedside.

She was expecting Cersei.

The Queen Regent hadn't been with her in the birthing chamber either, and Sansa presumed the older woman was reserving her goodwill for meeting her grandson.

Obviously mistaken, Sansa then suffered a mad instance of diffidence; blushing hot at her wearing only a bed gown and robe, then blushed hotter at her own foolishness - Lord Tywin had been privy to her in a way that altogether negated the immodesty of her wearing sleep attire in his company.

The man stood intimidatingly tall at the edge of her bed - one arm resting behind his back, the other at his side - and Sansa would have entertained smiling at him if he didn't look so put out or aggrieved in some way.

"He's strong, my lord," she muttered in a low voice, at the same time, she turned her attention back to her son and chided herself for such a lame greeting. Then forgot about it altogether when her lovingly tended bundle gurgled and wriggled.

Sansa smiled at her boy like he was the only thing that existed in the room - in the world.

The Great Lion gifted her no reply, he barely seemed to notice; his focus was the honesty before him.

The Queen was happy in a way he had never seen, _never thought to distinguish_, before.

And the babe was pink and chubby and whole; every bit the ideal health for an heir.

_A prince_, Tywin reminded himself.

Not merely an _heir_, never to be _his_ heir, and _that _impression brought a well defined thrash of discomfort to the old lion. The son the Queen held was the one he needed; the one he so wanted. But the reality of it all cut hard and final: the son he sired was not his.

The boy belonged to the crown.

There was some appeasement there; as long as he lived, Tywin _was _the crown. But the infant within arms' reach - with light copper curls and a mouth puckered and set to suckle already - was not so easy to cast aside.

It took nothing to raise his arm somewhat, even less to draw the backs of his fingers in the softest of lines down the equally soft cheek of the baby - _of his baby_.

The war inside him, the one driving Tywin into his own thoughts, felt almost real. And when he shook off the muzzy distraction, he was apt to believe those shoves _were_ true to life. For the tender caresses first bestowed on the son were now being carefully brushed upon the mother.

There should have been an embarrassment that fetched absolute fury at his blatant show of sentimentality; there _would_ have been. But as he took in his Queen - her head leaning to his touch, her eyes closed, and her face a mask of unguarded contentment - the old lion bore an urgent, painful tug at the very heart of him. One that made it hurt to breathe.

For the truth, it seemed, had laid itself bare.

The babe was not the only one Queen Sansa had found her joy in.

.

..

...

** A huge thank you to my beta, content developer, researcher, sounding-board, and internet life-partner: dealbreaker19 **

_(Any mistakes are mine alone. I tend to fiddle and tweak - up to posting)_


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